


LOVE is War

by The_Birds_And_Bees



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Chara Is Their Own Warning, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Murder Most Foul, No Mercy Route, SAVING and Resetting, SOUL absorption, Sans did a bad, Seriously Sans you fucked up, Sharing a Body, Soul Theft, gotta put that dunk in dunkle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-11-05
Packaged: 2018-05-28 17:47:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6339208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Birds_And_Bees/pseuds/The_Birds_And_Bees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Knock knock. Who’s there.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  <em>Not Frisk.</em></p>
<p> </p>
<p>The one time he’s proactive instead of reactive, and everything goes straight to hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ⚹It's Begun

**Author's Note:**

> Two existential nihilists walk into a bar.  
> I’d tell you the rest of the joke but it’s all a bit pointless.

* * *

 

**We all nurture impulses which promise freedom from the demands of others.**

**Even if that freedom means death.**

 

* * *

Once upon a timeline, he knew what their name was.

It’s less a sense of deja vu than it is an itch on the inside of his sockets. He’s watched them in their journey across the Underground, their faltering shamble that had grown into a confident stride, practically skipping their way to their next victim. Leaving a cloud of dust in their wake. He’s seen the way they’ve gone from striking out without so much as a second thought to playing with their enemies. He’s seen a lot of things, and to be really honest?

He’s not gonna grace them all with a description.

Once upon a timeline, he knew what their name was. He knows he did; knows that somewhere, once upon a timeline, they could’ve been friends. Knows it’s well past that point now, to the point where- heh, it’s kind of pointless.

They shuffle towards him in a hall bathed in gold, and Sans does his best to impart some final advice. Lays out his judgement, then puts them to bed in a blanket of bones. Again. Again. Again. _The big ten oh. We should throw a party._

As pointless as the vague knowledge of who they could have been is, Sans has to say they have a bit of an _edge_ to them. It’s kind of like a knife to the ribs.

He could take a _stab_ at what their end goal is, except their aim is getting better.

Why _pierce_ it all together when they’re intent on doing it for him? He’s sure the result is to die for.

He’s too old for this. Or he’s beginning to run low on the usual stream of mental chuckles, dodging a blade that’s inevitably going to leave it’s mark. The kid isn’t getting tired; they never do. It’s gotten to the point where they’re prepared to spring-board off the walls before they even collide, eyes concentrating on the motions and direction of his arm. Judging where they’re being sent next and reacting accordingly. Systematic; like some sort of twisted rhythm game.

It won’t be long now. Another thing he wishes he didn’t know. Just one more thing to add to the pile of things he wishes he _didn’t._ The air around him crackles; skulls twice his height and then some come into existence with a whir that has the kid tensing-

 

**Good.**

 

There’s no body left by the time the blasters are done, fizzling out of existence just as the rest of the room does, just for a moment. A fraction of a second as time bends itself to the whims of a child with a deathwish.

Or, he supposes that’s what happened. It’s either that, or Sans has been standing at the end of the corridor for a long time. A long time. A long-

...He supposes that he must’ve got them, because despite everything, there’s an echo of magic ringing in the air, and their expression, for a moment, is pure frustration. Again; **Good.**

‘Course, there’s still so much about them that appears to be a kid. Yey high, tiny slip of a thing. They sweep the hair out of their eyes as they straighten up, glancing down at the pendant round their neck (there is something wrong with that thing, he doesn’t need eyes to see it) and then they’re focused on him once more. The knife is just part of the set; he’d be surprised if it hadn’t embedded itself into their hand, by this point. A priceless collection of bad judgement calls and a road that, realistically, couldn’t get any worse if they tried.

He supposes… it’s a beautiful day outside.

It’s always a beautiful day outside. In comparison to what he’s up against right now, there’s a lot of things Sans would call beautiful.

This kid? Well. Again, he can’t grace them with a description. Their footsteps echo, sound carrying without the slightest bit of resistance to it, and he vaguely considers whether or not he’d have tinnitus at this point, had any of the other timelines actually continued.

He exhales. A low note; nothing comparable to laughter. Too brief to be anything aside from air turned to noise.

“Let’s just get to the point.” Flat. Once more with feeling, maybe. He’ll try to keep that in mind for next round. Shoving his hands into his pockets, Sans expects- he doesn’t know. Somethin’.

Yet, the kid doesn’t step forward, this time. They’re waiting for him to start, as if somehow letting him (letting all of them) set the scenario negates the sin he can see pulling at their SOUL like a visible disease. Keep heading down this path, and it’ll eat them alive. It’s almost comforting.

There’s a pitch, that goes here. Sans doesn’t even have to think about it anymore. Birds, flowers. Hell. Kid’s heard it so many times that they tense on the last syllable, let a hand slap against the ground when gravity pushes into them before neatly leaping over the bones that surface in their wake. He makes ‘em dance for it, and they know every step. Something something, _now I know why people don’t use their strongest attack first._

Lying through his teeth well before the kid’s up close and personal in an attempt to slice them open completely. Reflexes- or instinct- or marrow-memory keep him in the clear; more regurgitated words. Verbose noise, filling the silence. He’s certain they’re listening about as much as he is, but still. Tragic Backstory; can’t leave that one behind.

Part of him hopes there’s something in them that might hear it, one day. Part of him is certain that something already has before. Timelines are buzzing in the back of his skull, waiting for the opportune moment to flood right in; can’t afford the distraction right now. As is, they almost get a potshot in; it’s a rushed slice that has him inhaling sharply, spine contracting, curving over- one of these things saves his metaphorical skin, the other is too useless to get a second thought.

A snap of his wrist and bones rise up behind him like a wave; catching on ancient magic long since used to lay out the floor in an unerringly precise manner- and giving them something safe to leap on. Keeps forgetting about that part. Ah well. There’s always next time...so long as he’s snapped their ankles in two, first.

They’ve got a precision to them that makes most of his bone attacks practically useless, but now and again, they slip up. It’s the most satisfying thing, watching them go reeling when ivory collides with their forehead. He can’t say that he isn’t good at his job, even if nothing about it goes to his favor.

Should’ve broken their neck, with that. Instead, he doesn’t get another hit in. They reach up with their free hand and wipe a streak of blood off their face. Dancing back with a leering little smile. The blood keeps mingling with dust, patches of their skin caked in a gritty mixture of death personified.

Hard to say _whose_. There’s a rush of something that comes with that; unidentifiable, or an anger he just doesn’t want to recognise. They get too close, take their swing, and like clockwork- Missed.

It’s easier to look at their shadow, at points. Kid likes to keep close to the windows; use the beaming light that shines through the barrier as an advantage- to strike out before the pinpricks of his eyes can adjust. Nice trick, but the treat is in how he retorts, the world distorting for an instant of a second to pull them right back into the middle of the room, bones rushing in from all sides. Direct hit.

Always fun when he can meet cheat for cheat. It’d be a pity that they haven’t picked up the hint about that one yet, but- nah. It isn’t, really. Can’t say he enjoys hurting them, but Sans is a far cry from hating it, at this stage.

Watching them attempt to skid back and stuff some food into their mouth- what can he say? Karma’s a _bitch_ \- he wonders, idly, if this is what LOVE feels like. Probably. A few rushes of fury, a couple drops of grief. Not a lot else. He doesn’t particularly care if they manage to get a mouthful of that pie. Doesn’t even care that he knows the flavor, and by extension, who made it. They don’t get a chance to finish up; one item of eight wasted when the world clicks and they’re brought back towards him whether they want to be or not.

On the very brief occasion that they make a sound, it’s hard to identify it as human. Not surprising. The blasters aren’t about the surface damage; it’s all SOUL deep, real fun stuff that melts your insides

Last attack; he knows it. And if the way they’re gripping the hilt of that knife so tightly their knuckles go white is any indication, they know it too. Better make it a good one. They shift their stance, leaping at him with blade high and free hand splayed over the hilt, like he’s going to stick there and let them hammer it down into his cranium. Wrong move. Bones erupt from the ground; and just to add a little more insult to injury, he makes ‘em blue.

Their own momentum takes them out, in the end. Skewers them before they even have the chance to backtrack. The sound is like something out of Alphys’ cartoons; squish, hurk. He knows the color of their soul well enough by now, and it’s distinctly different from the color of their life’s essence that can’t be contained in their mouth. Magic beats water, and water gets shish kabobed.

 

_Get dunked on, you piece of shit._

 

The only real signs of a struggle are where the kid’s slammed into something so hard the marble’s cracked. There’s a bit of blood about the place, as well- a lot of blood. But that’s all on the kid. They hang there, a limp puppet on several badly placed sticks, and the fact that they’re still holding onto that knife is all the indication he needs to give them one last bone for the road. Right through their forehead.

He winces at the sound it makes- bone shooting straight through bone, and right out the other side. The blade hits the floor with a clatter. It’s not his greatest moment of triumph; it’s not a moment that’s worth remembering at all. Still, he’s got one thing up on them. He doesn’t sit around to watch the kid twitch. Been tempted to, just to take a breather from the whole thing, but hey. He’s not an animal. That’s more, uh, their thing.

They’ve already taken everything he cares about. S’a real good motivator, once he got a hold on the sense of detachment that comes with grief so raw it feels like it’s eating through the core of his being. There’s an extra dose of satisfaction in understanding that whatever steps they take after him? Nobody’s above consequences.

And he’s got seconds, from when their SOUL appears. Vibrating wildly on the tip of his last attack; their final struggle against the inevitable. Sans has had thoughts to spare on this before; mild bouts of awe at the true tenacity Determination brings with it- just not in this place. Never in this place.

This place, right here? Eighteen columns in all. Facing towards the throne room, there were two more pillars on the right than there were opposite. Seven windows and nine angels. Two hundred and forty tiles. The color of the paint on the walls is golden poppy. There’s a joke in there, somewhere. It’s a pretty floral occasion, however; not the best time for a laugh. Never is. If hell does exist, this is the place, right here. A cold, drafty hallway where he’s spent way too much of his life on repeat, saying the same words that hold less and less meaning every time.

...SOUL’s still just. Uh. Sitting there. Wobbling to and fro, which could be his fault. It’s possible he hasn’t killed them, yet. A concept that really does have him cringing as the pinpricks in his eyes snuff out, swiping at the thing on the offhand chance it just needs a little nudge.

In hindsight, he could’ve just left it there. Let it do it’s own thing, taken that...uh. Taken that breather. Except he’s got his morals; got that one, tiny strand of hope that he’ll be standing next to his brother again one day- wants to be able to look him in the eye when he does. Still has a photo tucked away in a drawer somewhere, out of sight but not out of mind, with a kid who barely speaks but has a smile almost as good as looking at the stars.

Got a promise that he’s broken a million times over, yet can’t seem to stop himself from trying to respect all the same- _coulda let them suffer, lady. Wanted to. Didn’t._

Could also just be tired. That’s a factor, in all of this.

So he swipes. Carelessly digs his phalanges in, gives the kid’s SOUL a little tug. A part of it comes clean off with his fingers.

 

A part of it comes clean off with his fingers like tissue paper; a large part. And the rest pulses the once before shattering into pieces. What’s left seems to almost follow the motions of the shards on the way down; he can feel the vibrations in his own magic, that little bit of _oomph_ humans have that keep them going. So, really the gist of it is-

 

Sans is no SOUL expert, but he’s still fairly certain that’s not supposed to be a thing...ever.  He doesn’t do ‘aghast’ so much- but surprise? Sure. There’s so few things in life that can honestly surprise him, and the _half a SOUL_ sitting neatly on the anterior of his metacarpals is- one of them.

Neatly might not be the right word, here.

Impulse, though? Impulse is a pretty dangerous thing. Instinct he can get behind; it’s the difference between life and death, the first thing to tell him what kind of time is in store when he shakes a tiny hand; not even a yard away from the door they’d come through. Impulse doesn’t act within such rational boundaries. It means doing things like; oh, he doesn’t know.

Like closing his fingers around that piece of SOUL like a vice. Like staring down mutely as it soaks straight into his bones. No _zzck_ of shattered hopes and dreams. Pretty quiet. Warm. Races straight up his arm and through the entirety of his being, stringing itself along his magic- fits like a glove. And that’s about the moment it starts to click that he, potentially, just absorbed half the SOUL of a good friend turned absolute nightmare.

“Uh.”

 

Yeah. Okay.

 

“...Shit?”

 

All...things considered. Sans doesn’t feel any different. Outside of the fact that it’s warmer (and tibia frank, here, he was just kind of...guessing, that it was drafty. That was the kind of temperate that suited this place), there’s no spark to it. No uh, no radical transformation from monster to beast with powers beyond all imagination. Pretty sure, from a few glances at the polished floor below, that he’s only as ugly as he’s ever been.

Sans slouches down against the nearest pillar, and the inside of him is as still as the outside. It’s been about...twenty minutes. Maybe.

About twenty minutes.

Their corpse is still hanging there. Limp- lifeless. They’re losing pallor about as quickly as the flow of blood from their wounds and mouth is starting to stop, bones he’d finished them off with coated in thick red, but it’s darkening. Starting to dry out. Kid’s body is just a fixture now; a morbid centerpiece in the middle of the room; and sure. He didn’t feel too bad about that, before.

Little blessings. Not many left alive to see it. Another exhale. It barely constitutes as a noise.

“Guess I’m pretty good at my job after all, huh?” Said to...absolutely no one. Can’t say he’s ever been a big fan of Asgore. Alphys is gone; he doubts he’ll see her again, what with the way Undyne went out of the picture. That kind of thing was meant to hit home. So there’s no one left- and no RESET to change it all.

That bit’s taking it’s time to sink in.

Place is as quiet as a tomb...heh.

Not even slightly funny, huh?

He’s never been this far. No idea what that means, except now he’s got a lot of blood on his hands and a SOUL that’s potentially been busted for good. He can just make out their lips, under all the grime. Past the bone that’s turned their forehead into something a little less palatable.

His hand reaches up, phalanges pinching at his nasal bone to quell a headache that isn’t coming, and quench emotions that don’t quite seem to be there. Sans won. He gained…

“Sorry kiddo.” Heavy shit, right here. Doesn’t exactly have the joke to go with this one. “Believe me; this isn’t the way I wanted things to go. Got every right to be pissed at you, though. Don’t think that I don’t.”

But he’s also got a picture where he’s standing next to a star, so maybe anger comes later.

...Could give an attempt at- some kind of eulogy, or another. ‘ _I can’t remember your name and that’s probably for the best_ ’? ‘ _I told you not to come back_ ’? ‘ _See why I hate making promises, now_ ’? There’s words, there’s a lot of words.

And a heck of a lot of time to say them in. Not feeling so numb, anymore. If anything, Sans could almost say he’s scared. Big aberration, leaping clear out of any data he’s seen. He’s stuck on what to do next, so much so that his hands are shaking- shoving them back into his pockets does absolutely no good.

There’s a big part of him that can’t seem to calm down, right now. Can’t even blame himself.

“...I can’t do it, kid.” And there it is, an actual sigh. Slow and drawn out- stuttering. If he had the heart to beat with, Sans is certain he’d have dusted himself from the way it’d be banging about in his ribcage. “Don’t have it in me to let anyone see you like this. Sorry.”

Gonna have to figure out the best place to bury ‘em.

The anger he feels is immediate. At first, he considers that he’s just angry at the idea of giving them what no one else- but that’s not it.

This is different. Thick and malevolent- volatile in a way that throws him off guard as he stumbles forward, barely capable of stopping himself from face-planting into the dirty floor. A brief gleam of his own eye reflected back at him, blue and orange flaring before he’s drawn back to Frisk and yeah. Yeah.

That’s about the point where he figures something’s gone pear shaped.

‘Cause hell. That ain’t his thought, and that name (regardless of the fact that it rings like a bell in his head; the true name) ain’t something he knows. He’s graceless but in his worst moments Sans doesn’t stumble; knows how dangerous it would be for his body to take the brunt of a fall.

And his anger, no matter how often it’s been directed internally, has never come with mental images of grinding his own dust beneath his heel. Not even his heel.

 

The entire world collapses.

 

There one moment, and a blink, it’s gone. He can hear the howling screams of a place he shouldn’t know about as time mercilessly tosses him back, sees Frisk’s body for an instant longer than anything else, before it’s gone, too. It’s the end of the world and for once he’s in the driver’s seat. Not in control but whoever is may as well be sitting in his lap. And they’re pretty intent on taking a U-turn; so sharp and intentionally _reckless_ that he’s half expecting to fall apart any second, not even survive the trip.

He wakes up at home.

He doesn’t wake up alone.

 

**⚹** You feel like you’re going to have **A Bad Time.**


	2. Hallelu-Hallelu-Hallelujah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you wanna do a murder?  
> (Yes it has to be a murder)
> 
> Fuck off Chara!
> 
> Lol nice try~

 

* * *

 

  ** _The monstrous act, by definition, demands a monster._**

 

* * *

 

 

His room is nothing special. It’s not really due to preference; now and again, he still gets the urge to make of it what he can. To carelessly spend every red G he’s ever made on whatever comes to mind; maybe he’d get a rug. A nice, plush rug that he could spend the entire timeline on, snoozing the day away.

Until it all set back- a shutter click in time that had him sitting up in bed, wondering why he felt like he’d had a rug on the floor. Only thing that’s ever there is socks and garbage.

And that’s precisely why.

The mattress creaks under his weight as he sits up, body taking it’s time to orientate itself. His sternum is heaving under heavy breaths that whistle through his teeth; left eye socket burning. Despite the way his own instincts tell him to clutch at it- claw. Dig in until he’s scraped away the feeling of dust settled on the inside of his skull, until he’s at risk of causing fractures into his own bones- that uh. That’s not happening, today.

Air continues to uselessly whistle past his teeth as something else makes a useless attempt to breathe. And don’t get him wrong; plenty of things need to breathe. Now and again, he makes a few attempts at partaking in the activity, himself. Kind of fun; messes with people. It’s a show of solidarity towards his fellow monsters who think respiration equates to being alive. And it ain’t necessary in the least.

One of a few problems he’s having, really. Second one being the fact that its all- right there. Fighting. Winning. A limp body hanging off a set of bones, a morbid statue in the middle of a golden hall. Blood everywhere. The world itself ripping to pieces around him; or perhaps that had been time. Time, bending and warping itself to the whims of whatever was intermingling with his own SOUL; as easily as the way the bedsheets give when his phalanx grip tight and wrench them away.

It throws his body out of bed- and his knees give way immediately, sending them both crashing to the floor. Not too great at this whole thing, apparently; trying to use muscles that aren’t there. What it’s getting instead is a flailing limb here and a flailing limb there, emotions sending his entire being haywire. His everything is thick with it- would call it panic if he thought the thing was capable of it, definitely certain there’s frustration, there. A good heaping.

And fuck if he wants to try for it’s sake, but there’s a part of him (one, tiny piece of hope set deep into the recesses of everything he’s got left to go on) that’s never given up on the _kid,_ and hell. He can’t be blamed for the tenacity of it. That’s monsters for him; he’s still one of those, even if he doesn’t particularly feel it, most of the time.

“Kid?” A wheeze. He barely recognizes it as his own voice. Apparently it doesn’t either, because his eyes flash across the space around him before a flush of realization and newfound fury hits him like a ton of bricks. It-

 

 

Does something.

 

If he had to describe it, Sans would be inclined to compare it to a piece of playdoh. A piece of goo. Even a child knows what to do with it; they wanna make a ball? They roll it into a ball. A sausage? Heh, same sort of rules.

They wanna squash it flat against the nearest surface until it’s so thin they can’t peel it away? Heck, they can do that too.

His SOUL is the playdoh. It seizes hold with whatever it’s being is composed of, and it squeezes. Presses and compacts, attempts to contain him into a tiny ball of nothing that can’t feel it’s limbs, shoving at him in an attempt to- and he’s only guessing, really- corner what makes him _him_ off, claim the rest of the space for itself.

Doesn’t really work like that. Before it starts shoving him out of his own cranium, he gets a brief moment of sight.

Just the briefest of moments to watch his own arms turn to dust as his magic leaves them.

 

 

His room is nothing special. It’s not really due to preference; now and again, he still gets the urge to make of it what he can. To carelessly spend every red G-

Haha, yeah, okay. Skip that part. Been there, _remembering that._ It’s just as quick to shove his body off the bed as it was the first time, and the wheezing laughter rattling his ribcage is solely his, alone.

“Having a little trouble there, pal?”

 

It does it again. He’s pretty sure, considering the fact that he gets to watch his own body disintegrate in an almost painfully slow fashion, that it does it on purpose.

 

 

His room is nothing special. Blah blah, etc. It sits up.

Not out of bed, just yet.

Sans has never been sick, but he’s known monsters who have. Read textbooks about symptoms, and the way this thing throbs through his being kind of reminds him of all of that. Sickness. Can’t even begin to define it past that; everything rushing through him right now is so foreign it’s impossible to read.

The terms he’s thinking in; frustration, anger… they’re emotional prospects. Black and white terms that don’t mean diddly squat when something sits firmly in the orange or some other, weird color that he’s never had to deal with on a personal level. He has no idea if it’s even possible for him to understand it; if there’s even a thought process there to understand. An anomaly is, by definition, an anomaly. Pretty much begs the question of understanding to begin with.

He’s wasting time, of course. There’s not much else to do here, aside from watch through his own eyes as it flexes his bones, one by one. Starts at the joints in his fingers, works it’s way up to the wrists. Elbows. Next time his body gets out of bed, it’s not as quick to fall over. A few shambling steps and it’s off, not even bothering to collect one of the two ratty pairs of shoes he owns- slippers or sneakers; depends on how much effort he’s really willing to put into things- before it’s out the door.

Shambling through the snow, he’d called it. That’s what it had seemed like at the time, when he’d first watched the kid step out from behind that door and take off down the narrow path to Snowdin. He’s got a new word for it now; adjusting. Most creatures crawl before they learn to walk; this thing is hell-bent on missing that first part, and it’s not making for a pretty sight at all. His body lurches towards the stairs through pure **Determination** , set on getting down them, he imagines.

“SANS!” Papyrus yells, right on cue. “YOU LAZYBONES, ARE YOU ONLY JUST UP?!”

He’s expecting that. It isn’t. His foot jerks, slips up right on the first step down, and his body is dust before it even hits the landing.

His room is actually something he’s pretty sick of looking at. Which is nothing to sneeze at during the best of times, but bigger problems. Way bigger problems. He’s left staring at the ceiling for what seems like an eternity before it moves him, and what could possibly be more concerning than the rush of throbbing sickness-anger-impatience that he’s been feeling up to this point?

Deathly calm, that’s what.

It sits him up, and it stands, but the object of it’s focus doesn’t appear to be the door, this time. Regardless of how jerky it’s motions are in his body, it seems to know the layout of his room well. Too damn well. It avoids every sock on the way to the shabby dresser he’s shoved into the corner opposite his bed, looking up at the lamp that doesn’t function before calmly tipping it onto it’s side.

The lamp hits the floor. The flashlight inside the socket gets dislodged with the sudden jostle, bouncing across the carpet a few times before coming to a rest where his bony fingers can get to it, and get to it they do.

 

 

It raises the flashlight high.

 

 

 

Ask him any day; what’s something he doesn’t expect to do with his time.

Ram a flashlight so hard into his own cranium he feels the bone _crack_ is up there. Pretty much top of the-

 

Fuck his room. He gets up again, tips the lamp over. The flashlight goes bouncing across the carpet, right to where his bony fingers can get to it. And get to it they do.

“You gotta be fucking kidding m-”

 

 

_Fuck his room._

 

It just keeps happening. It gets him up, knocks over the lamp. Gets that torch and beams them both over the head with all the intent of an axe-murderer, and it’s not stopping. He’s seeing more of his ceiling than he thinks he’s seen in an eternity, general horror of the situation not lost in the slightest. He’s had dreams that could only hope to hold a candle up to the pain that comes with actually dying; and these ain’t dreams in the slightest. Every time he wakes up, he can feel it. The after ache of his last death sitting on the top of his skull, compounded all the more so by the recent deaths that came before it.

Thinking is pretty much impossible, for a while. His eye socket is aching so bad he might as well be splitting into pieces from that point alone; hard to say what’s keeping him together at all. Probably that thing, and it’s not like it isn’t doing it’s best to ensure the opposite, here.

Makes it hard to see there’s a point until the very last blow is taken. If it can even be called a blow. The thing raises the torch, but-

The worst he gets is the gentlest of taps, felt but not really...harmful. His entire body is sweating buckets; it still has the torch in hand, but as it lowers it back down to his side, Sans is lost on what to think of that. This. This whole scenario- thing.

The way it continues to tap the torch against his rib cage, an almost idle motion (like rapping a fork against a table), gives somewhat of an indication that- it’s thinking. He _thinks_ that it’s thinking, which means he should probably make an arbitrary motion to attempt thinking himself. Try to glean something out of however many deaths he’s just had, not that he’s keen on thinking over those for too long. What changed in the pattern? What was it doing?

The answer is pretty simple, he thinks. Or it appears to be.

It was testing how much he could take.

“Hhh- you’re kind of a freak, aren’t you?” That’s him speaking, drawing it back from wherever it’s gone to- just in time to have it slam that torch into him so hard, one of his rib bones snaps clean in half.

He gets to watch it sail right into the wall, before- yeah. That’s his ceiling, again.

The lesson it’s getting out of this; past what he’s already figured, Sans doesn’t even wanna know. The lesson _he’s_ getting out of this is that whatever he’s dealing with, it’s intelligent enough to figure shit out- in it’s own, fucked up manner. It’s intelligent.

It’s also about as done with his room as he is. Again, shoes ignored, but as it leaves his room, it does so with enough stability to shut the door quietly. Still shuffles forwards across the carpet, but with enough motor skill to avoid the floorboards that creak, and that’s just...dandy, really. Always nice to know this thing is that used to his house.

Down the stairs is another venture altogether. Wouldn’t have been, except two steps down, Sans is struck with the fact that, down there, in the kitchen, Papyrus is making spaghetti. And once he’s down there, this thing, it-

Isn’t giving him any control, but he uses that. Makes to kick out, goes completely slack when it violently pulls his leg in to counter it. It trips his body up with it’s own momentum, and down the stairs they go-

 

 

Hello, bed. It throbs in his bones, and Sans laughs at it, too tired for much else but grimly satisfied all the same. Not his brother, freak. Not again.

Hard not to be honest with himself. To put it bluntly, he’s got nothing on this thing. No defence, zero understanding. His own sense of time isn’t great, only precise by the seconds ticked off upon waking in his bed- Papyrus yells at him to get up in five minutes, forty seconds; in fifteen minutes, seventeen seconds, he’ll grow impatient enough to bang on his door; twenty-one minutes, forty-four seconds, he’ll- but they’ve probably been at this for a couple of hours now, linear or not, and it’s already managed to kill him more times than he can count.

Either it’s not even the slightest bit sentient, or it knows a lot more about how all this works than he does. Something to think about, when he’s got a chance to.

That chance is not now. He’s up and reaching for that torch again, beaming himself in the head hard enough that one of his eye sockets collapses on impact. Then he’s up again, knocking his teeth out on the corner of the dressing table. Up again- finding all new, incredible ways to off himself about the place; there’s a fork in a week old plate of pasta by the bed and hell if he’s ever gonna look at that thing the same again. He’s pretty sure it’s just trying to make a point when it kills him with a sock.

If you ask him, that’s just kind of a low blow all around.

 

Eye socket’s throbbing, again. It throbs as well, and his magic fizzles with it. Part of him is amazed that his body is even going at all, at this point. Feels like he should just be Falling Down before he even starts to think, a constant loop tape of turning to dust before either of them can do a thing about it, but uh, grim tenacity is as it does, he supposes. Can’t think of many times in recent memory where he hasn’t been on the brink of Falling Down, but here he is anyway. Morbidity turned up to eleven, but here he is anyway.

 

** EnOuGh. **

 

It throws his body off the bed, and the world clicks over. He winds up face first in snow instead of the carpet he’d expected. Takes it a moment to push his body up, this time.

Least he knows where he is.

His body shifts; it gets onto his knees. And then it stays there. His eyes are trained onto the door; doesn’t need any introduction. Not many doors in Snowdin forest, only one he’s spent any decent amount of time in front of.

Hey, so. She’s alive again back there, huh? He could probably reach out, rap his knuckles against stone and, who knows? He could get an answer. At the very least, he has the possibility of an answer. But it’s still; unerringly so, and Sans doesn’t chance gearing it up into action again.

 

A few minutes pass. Things are peaceful. It hasn’t moved.

 

Time for thinking.

Funny how much easier something like that is when he isn’t dying over and over again, heh. Clears a lot of things up; mostly his skull. And some of the questions he’s had seem pretty bone-headed, in hindsight.

Much as he hates conceding a point on this one, Sans can’t rule this thing off as anything but sentient. Be nice to think otherwise, but- hey. Since when has it ever acted otherwise? Figuring out how his body worked- how much...damage, it can take- that’s just the tip of the iceberg, where this thing comes into play. From shambling in the snow to dancing along, leaving dust in it’s wake? Playing with it’s victims?

Yeah. Thing’s sentient. It learns. Evolves. Whatever term he wanted to put to it. Parasitic piece of shit was taking him for loops by leaps and bounds. And bludgeons to the head.

So that’s one thing out of the way.

Million things to go.

There’s shit there he could get started on but won’t. Why this happened is one of those. Plenty of theoretical in this scenario, no answers. And hey, not for nothing, but Sans knows he isn’t in this whole thing for the effort required. Throwing out a pointless hypothesis or twenty he has no hope of proving doesn’t appeal.

SOUL theory is riddled with junk like that, honestly. There’s a lot to be said about his current situation; kneeling barefoot in the snow, a parasitic thing settled over his entire being like a vice. Practically every theory he’s read is bunk. Stuff like this? Yeah, sort of sits in the category of ‘not possible’ across the board.

Thing is, an absorbed SOUL is, supposedly, just an influx of power. And say he’s not dealing with an actual SOUL, then, first question; _what_ is he dealing with? Anomaly is an answer there, but too general. No matter the aberration, he’s seen the readings on this thing, and it has a start and a stop. Thing didn’t just crop up out of nowhere, which means there’s a source. Past the what, there’s the _how_ of it, too; quite a few questions starting on that word, but in this train of thought, how it’s surviving the way it is currently becomes the focus.

‘Course, that just leads him right on into _what_ it is, _when_ it came to be; a whole bunch of tangents that curve in a round robin back to the original, discarded question. Okay.

He sighs, or tries to. And it happens, as easily as if he’d been doing this all day.

‘Cept he hasn’t. So there’s the biggest question of all. One with a few aspects to it that all round off to a pretty dark picture. If Sans attempts to do so, without much thought, he can count aspects of this thing off on each phalanx of his left hand, slowly uncurled outwards at his side;

 

The thing learns.

 

Thus far, he’s going to assume that all the indications on those reports; timelines stopping and starting, jumping left and right, come part of the parasite package. The basis of the anomaly.

And for the most part, it seems to be controlling most of his bodily functions, with one or two slips. Still seems to have his voice, for the moment. Fingers are flexing pretty okay, so long as he doesn’t stop to think on them.

Which leads into that question; how is it that, despite being the parasite here, it has so much control?

Sans is pretty certain he’s hitting the mark in thinking it’s all about experience. It’s done this before, after all. Determined to cling to life in it’s own, ugly little way. And unless there’s some trick to this- hell, even if there is, he’s gonna have a fun time trying to catch up with it.

 

 

‘Specially when it’s listening.

His entire body convulses. He’ll take that as a yes, then. Having fun, being privy to shit you’re not really welcome to? Must be so easy, huh? Like reading off a screen. You don’t have to put much effort in at all.

Yet.

 

It shifts him, finally. His bones rattle under his own weight; motions not as fluid as they could be when the magic in his marrow might as well just be blocks of ice. Still, his eyes remain on the door, right up until it begins to walk away. Down the path, flexing his phalanges in mocking replication of what he’d been attempting earlier, body pitching from side to side on uneven footing. Should’ve worn some shoes.

And if it was waiting for what he thinks it was, then it’s timing’s off. They don’t come out of there for another two hours, yet. Parasite free. If-

The kid even comes out at all.

That’s the least of Sans’ problems right now. Wherever the kid is, and whatever they’re doing, they’re better off away from here. Right now, he’s gotta be concerned with himself, seeing as- yeah. Can’t say he’s better off, too. Can’t say the Underground is, either.

There’s a throbbing in his marrows, again. Rather than pay attention to the pathway, it’s about time to start focusing in on that. He casts aside everything else; would close his eyes if he had control to do so, and listens, so to speak. Feels it. Gotta be more to it than that; very complicated, SOUL stuff he’s dealing with.

Back to the playdoh metaphor.

Before, it was compression. This...throbbing...nah. Picking. It’s picking at him, plucking at the vibrations of his being, trying to tug them in the way it wants. Left leg, right leg. One foot. Other foot. Flexing phalanges as it goes. Moulding him to suit it, as much as it’s stretching to meet that. Alright, noted. So...what’s that bit, then? What’s it trying to do there?

It passes by his sentry station soon enough, coming to a halt at the fork in the road. Good fishing spot up that way, not that there’s much in the way of fish to catch. This far upstream it’s mostly moldbygg that have slipped into the water at some point, plus, it doesn’t strike him as the patient sort. Got another destination in mind, looks like- that uh, box someone set up a while back.

He can’t remember who it was…. But the things have a habit of coming in handy. And breaking space and time, to boot. It pauses, metacarpals resting lightly over the edge of the lid; the thrum of it collects in there, feeling the magical vibrations the box gives off. Sans can’t tell if it’s just never felt the magic in it before, or if it’s just slowing down, adding some dramatic effect to the moment.

Pretty cheap trick, if you ask him.

Inside the box is really nothing worth looking at. Teens have crammed a good amount of the space with rocks and snow- in one corner, he can see a magazine of some description rolled up between a few sticks; two guesses as to the content, there.

And the thing his bony fingers finally wrap around, lifting up for closer examination, is...a glove. Just a worn, pink leather glove, nothing pretty to look at and as far as he can tell, nothing special. It attempts to put it on, but the fit isn’t the best; big hands, heh. Little bit more difficult for it to clench his bones into a fist, but once it does, it doesn’t let that go lax, worn leather stretching into an even more misshapen mess. So...what?

It likes to be fashionable?

“Hey!”

A hiss escapes through his teeth; it _throbs,_ and that’s about all it needs to do, apparently. To stop whatever slew of words he’s trying to chuck out as it rounds on the monster that’s snuck up on it. Him. Both of them. Run is the major theme to it all, but that’s- yeah. That’s not happening.

Seeing who it is, Sans kind of wishes it was.

Snowdrake’s just a kid. Dumb kid, but a kid. Likes him a lot. Gives his brother a run for his money when it comes to who bothers him more when he’s napping at his station, but it’s all in good fun. He wouldn’t...uh. He wouldn’t strictly advise anyone to look up to him, but it’s not like the kid really does. Just kind of projecting a different guy onto him; helps the kid feel a little less homesick.

Plus, he really does have a soft spot for bad jokes. Even terrible ones.

“What? I sneak up on you?” The icy monster seems positively thrilled with itself, frozen plumage ruffling with pride. Sans wants to consider it dumb, that the kid just charges on speaking, but how’re they supposed to know what they’re really dealing with, here?

All the kid’s seeing is a friend.

“I thought of another joke! You better be prepared, ‘cause it’ll… “melt” your socks off.” Nice try, not it. He’d usually give ‘em a chuckle anyway, and he looks a little put off, for a second. But just a second. “Ha, tough crowd today, huh? That’s “cool”; I brought A grade material.”

He clears his throat hopping from foot to foot. It doesn’t move. Sans isn’t holding his breath- he really doubts it’s got a sudden interest in jokes.

“What kind of house is an ig?”

 

…

God, kid, at least die with a good laugh, won’t you?

“One without a LOO!”

Snowdrake laughs. The sound has never been uglier than it is in this moment; a cross between a warble and a tweet as it just...makes him stand there. Totally silent. The look on his face can’t be anything worth a description, because eventually that laughter slows. Stops completely.

Kid looks so confused. Then a little angry.

“Hey...what gives? It’s a joke. Laugh at it!” Snowdrake raises a foot to stomp in an indignant manner; and almost trips over when a sound escapes Sans’ lips. Can’t lie; if it were him, Sans is sure he’d be tripping over himself, too.

That noise ain’t monster. It ain’t supposed to be a noise at all. But there it is, coming out of him in a mockery of real amusement, shoulders shaking with it. It...steps forward.

Snowdrake steps back. Smart kid.

But a little too slow to save himself, on this one.

“ **Pathetic.** ” It tells him. “ **No one will ever love you the way you are.** ”

Sans’ arm raises. Rears back, bones fisted inside a tatty, pink, leather glove, and socks the kid right in the face.

Snowdrake’s dusted before he even has the chance to look betrayed, and it’s the smallest MERCY the world could’ve offered him, today. Raising his hand up, it flexes his fingers, wrist twisting the appendage this way and that. Looks like the glove took the brunt of the impact.

Looks like that was precisely what it was looking for.

 

 

Ask him any day; what’s something he doesn’t expect to do with his time?

This is up there. It’s really, really up there.

 

Possibly top of the list.

 

* * *

 

He has to give it credit where it’s due; this thing doesn’t fall short of expectations.

Sans isn’t expecting it to show anyone MERCY; and it doesn’t. It really doesn’t, after the kid. It just uh…

It just keeps going. The first of it’s victims? All kids. They’re all kids, and not once does he manage to close his eyes. Slow his swing. Soften the blow. Like hell he ain’t trying, either, but the death toll rises with or without his help, and there’s something about hearing the tortured yelp Lesser Dog manages just before he-

Fuck. How hard and how long was he really expected to try for?

He’s just a passenger in his own body, right now. Doing the usual spectator sport from a different seat; front row view. Got a lot of time to feel the burn of knowing who had this seat before him; a lot of time to stack on a little more hate for not trying to end it all sooner.

But his hands are already coated with the dust of multiple kids, now, so what’s the existential nightmare lived by one more? He really fucking hopes that kid never walks out those doors.

‘Specially when his new _friend_ keeps going back to check. After the second time, it makes another pit stop at that crossroads; not for the box. There’s...something else there, something Sans can’t describe or explain at all. The feeling he got when it had touched it was all….it, not him, and any suspicions on what it might be are laid to rest when, after slogging all the way through to the snowmen Paps had bullied him into helping create, a shutter click drags time right back to that point.

Lesser Dog’s yelp is no less excruciating the second time. Or the third. He watches Dogaressa go on the warpath for his head, then watches Dogamy just...fuck. _Just give up._ Could’ve walked away and the guy probably would’ve Fallen Down.

He’s doing his best to try and not think about Greater Dog. Him and the kids are just- they’re all on another level.

And still, this thing just keeps doing it. Over and over again, it uses his body to bring about those looks of fear and cries of pain, lets the dust settle into his eye sockets, then goes back to do it all once more. Just lashing out at those who wander across his path, at first. Doesn’t even need to pick a fight; he’s not a kid, and no one’s got their defences up, not around him. It lashes out at their weakest points not out of any sense that it’s required to take them down, he suspects, but because it can. Because it wants to. Because it really doesn’t matter to him that he’s thinking about how much that shows in knowing them all.

He wakes up in his room, at some point. And it throws off the covers and pushes over the lamp, picks up the torch that bounces across the floor to where bony fingers can get to it, then leaves the house without so much as a word in response to Papyrus. Goes all the way back to the door and...starts all over again, with a brand new weapon.

Amazing. He even knows how much this one hurts.

The worst part is- heh. He really keeps thinking; ‘this can’t possibly get any worse, right?’ And Sans knows better; he should really know not to tempt fate like that, because that’s just asking to be proved wrong. It lashes out at anything that comes across it, at first; but that’s just the teaser. Just it getting used to the motions again, before it starts to hang about in the same clearing, dragging his body in circles through the snow. Waiting.

And look at that. Monsters just...come out of the woodwork, all on their own. His body may have made a trail all of it’s own; set lines that grow deeper and deeper as it follows the same path unerringly, but there’s one good thing about all the snow. Makes it hard to discern what’s dust and what’s not.

Things get real quiet, after a while. Dead silence, in a pretty literal manner. Dogamy and Dogaressa are still up ahead; haven’t seen Greater Dog yet, either, but...ever have the feeling everyone else is just- gone? Up and dusted.

‘Nother thing to add to the pile of things he wishes. Just him and this thing, for the rest of the walk. And it’s getting the hang of him, too; ambling along, twirling the torch between the bones of his fingers. Real fucking casual; just another day in the life of a parasite.

So the first time it spins about and punches empty air almost puts his SOUL out of commission.

Second time, he’s just plain irritated.

 

The third? Oh yeah, by the third he’s pretty confused. What, it kills everything, and then decides to be paranoid? Doesn’t work like that, bucko. Nerves come when something’s alive to hit back, not when their dust is caking his bare bones. Shoes would be good, next Reset.

Heh. Yeah. It grabs the shoes. Next time, Sans thinks, watching Lesser Dog get belted around like nothing more than a piece of trash, he’ll keep his thoughts shut.

But it’s kind of interesting to know this thing has nerves enough to leap out of non-existent skin when the dangers, yanno, **it.**

So this is the new forever, huh? He’s pretty sure he managed to twitch a finger back there somewhere, but- yeah, nah. This ain’t going his way at all. The influx of memories from the past… he’s lost track. The past time, since he first woke up. Whenever that was.

This whole thing is some twisted nightmare made reality.

How does he fight that? How does _anyone fight this,_ never mind the one guy who barely does enough to ensure he gets some peace and quiet, now and again? The one time he’s proactive instead of reactive, and everything goes straight to hell.

It just not surprising, that things can get worse. So when it makes it’s way through Greater Dog for the last time, finishes off that quick detour to do some undecorating, strike out at something when it’s most vulnerable, and progresses to the bridge between the forest and Snowdin?

Undyne and Paps are waiting, because of course they are.

Somewhere out there, there’s a better word for all this than hell. Here’s to finding out what that is in, oh…

One or two spear’s time.

 

* * *

 

 

**Hello this is an Author Note:**

Here’s a fun game; count how many times Sans dies in this chapter. Go on. I won’t even dispute whatever number you come up with I literally lost count at about 11.

A thing to note; I went back and made...one or two edits on the last chapter. Just a few errors I picked up, as well as figuring out how the site skins work so I could make Chara’s flavor text nice and shiny. You won’t have missed anything if you didn’t reread, I promise. If you think of it, please let me know if the color is difficult to read; I went a few shades darker than the text in game on purpose, since bright red on white is not a fun time.

Also because all the cool kids do it here’s [my tumblr](http://lockandkeyblade.tumblr.com/)\- I’m always happy to have people scream at me from across the Void (because writer’s live on a steady diet of people having feels over their stuff huehueheuhohrk).


	3. Die Trying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sans fucked up. Undyne fucked up. And Paps? Paps fucked up.
> 
>  
> 
> Then it did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spend all my time at the junkyard, now.
> 
> It's my element.

 

* * *

 

**And again, he asks me to kill him. And I get it. I do.**

**Because I have a brother, too.**

* * *

 

After five minutes of trying to unlock the door, he winds up busting it in. Doesn’t have the motor skills for something as simple as shoving a key in a hole and twisting, or the patience to keep on trying. Always gave up on things pretty damn quick.

He makes up for it by flinging the largest object in the room at it, instead. The machine- the machine, something he’d spent ridiculous amount of time on, ridiculous hours in the vain hope that one person could still make a difference, and he shoulda known better- crashes into it with more force than he’d intended to put into it, the full weight of gravity making it shudder and groan, collapsing in on itself and wobbling dangerously, whenever he hazards a look at it.

Sans doesn’t hazard many looks. It’s fine. It’s broken, and that’s fine, cause give it an hour, and it’ll be like he never did that. Because he wouldn’t have.

It’s furious. He slides to the ground as it throbs in his bones, phalanges twitching against his sleeves, and the moment he gives it room to do so, it’s all over.

Again. It’s all over again.

He’d dust himself if he thought it’d make any difference, right now. At all, ever.

 

 

To her credit, Undyne tried for diplomacy, first.

“Nobody else has gotta die here, Sans! No one but you!”

It’s just unfortunate that her sense of diplomacy ain’t the best. Wind isn’t all that common in the Underground, but when you’re dealing with monsters like her, the elements have a habit of shaping up for the occasion. Wind howling, all that good stuff. Beside her, Papyrus shifts anxiously from one foot to the other. He hopes that she’d made it clear to him, what had to happen here.

Mustn’t of, cause he’s the first to argue against it.

“I DO NOT AGREE WITH THIS, UNDYNE! I BELIEVE THAT MY BROTHER NEEDS OUR HELP; HE WOULD NOT DO THIS.” A wild gesture of his arms, pointing across the bridge towards him. “BROTHER, TELL UNDYNE THAT YOU WOULD NOT DO THIS.”

He can’t reply. At this distance, Sans isn’t even sure they can see it; the sweat that slides down the side of his skull as he tries to comply, somewhat. At least he’s trying to speak.

He tries to tell them both to run. It doesn’t let him.

The first step it takes towards the bridge, Undyne doesn’t hesitate to cut it- nah. She doesn’t hesitate to cut him down. And even though Papyrus screams, he’s glad. He’s guiltily, unrepentantly glad to see the glimmering point back near the RUINS, but that dies off almost immediately when it picks his body back up and continues on, right back to the bridge. Right back to the warning. It takes its first step, and Undyne tries to cut it down. It dodges.

On the second step, she cuts it- cuts Sans down practically cleaves his body in half as Papyrus yells at her to wait, tells her to stop.

He already knew it wasn’t gonna stop. He already knew.

He already knew.

 

 

And yet the laugh that chokes out of him is utterly bitter, sweat sliding down his cheekbones until he realizes that it isn’t sweat, and yeah, yeah, it wouldn’t be, would it?

It wouldn’t be.

He already knew it wasn’t gonna stop.

“SANS?” A knock, on the door hanging off it’s hinge. Just over the top of the machine, he can see bleached bone- an eye socket, as his brother tries to peer in at him. “BROTHER, I DO NOT BELIEVE YOUR STRANGE MACHINE SHOULD BE HERE. IT DOES NOT MAKE FOR A CONDUCIVE PUZZLE- IN FACT, I BELIEVE IT IS NOT A PUZZLE AT ALL.”

“...Yeah, nah,” If he’s proud of anything, it’s the fact that his voice doesn’t wobble all that much. “Just a bit of an accident, bro. I’ll clean it up later.”

“ARE YOU SURE? I MAY ASSIST YOU, IF YOU WOULD LIKE. IT APPEARS TO BE VERY MESSY.” Maybe it’s just his imagination, but Sans can’t help thinking that he sounds- quieter, than usual, hesitant.

Maybe afraid.

And it’s probably all in his mind, really, letting his sockets close tight before wiping his face on his sleeve, cause- yeah, none o’ that. Never really had the time for that.

It’s not Papyrus’ fault this happened.

“Yeah, bro. I’m just tinkering a bit. Guess I lost a coupl’a electrons, there.”

“SANS-”

“I should keep a better ion them.” He can hear his foot stamping in the snow, and it’s just-

Not the relief it should be.

“I DO NOT BELIEVE YOU ARE WORKING AT ALL! BUT, IF YOU ARE WELL ENOUGH TO WORK ON YOUR JOKES, THEN YOU ARE WELL ENOUGH TO CLEAN THIS UP.” A pause. “AND IT WILL NOT BE LIKE THE SOCK, SANS. YOU WILL PUT IT BACK WHERE IT WAS YESTERDAY.”

“‘Course, bro.”

“I MEAN IT, SANS. IT. WILL. NOT. BE. THE. SOCK.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, bro.”

“GOOD, THEN I WILL LEAVE YOU TO YOUR...QUOTE UNQUOTE WORK.” In the gap between machine and door, he can see one of Papyrus’ hands, phalanges curling into quotation marks as he speaks. He’s…

Ha. He’s so cool.

“Sounds good. Hey bro?”

“YES, BROTHER?” His skull thunks against the wall, still fixated on that tiny gap that opens out to the rest of the Underground. There’s only ten feet or so between them, right now. It’s not enough.

“Love ya.”

“AND I YOU; HOWEVER, THAT WILL NOT GET YOU OUT OF CLEANING THIS UP.” Impatience, tempered with affection. Something in him is disgusted- and he’s ignoring it. “I WILL RETURN WHEN IT IS TIME TO CALIBRATE OUR PUZZLES.”

“K. Seeya.” _Don’t go,_ part of him says.

That part’s a little harder to ignore.

 

 

The one benefit to all of this is how much trouble it’s having, getting a hold of his magic. It’s grasp on his body is pretty much on par to how it handled Frisk, by this point, and he figures he can chalk that up to the actions being familiar enough to it, where magic- doesn’t seem to be. It might be getting closer, each time Undyne strikes it down- but there’s only so far it’s gonna get. It’s a bridge- small, and narrow, and it’s got little room to move. He’s gotta say, it’s pretty satisfying-

Or it would be, if his brother’s shouts every time he turns to dust didn’t blunt any sense of achievement that could come from this. Undyne ain’t relenting, as she should. And Papyrus ain’t-- he’s not leaving, no matter how many steps it gains towards them. Still playing mediator. Still believing he deserves a chance.

But it doesn’t. It really doesn’t, and that’s what counts right now.

“Sans, I am _ordering you_ to halt!” And Undyne’s still trying for diplomacy, as terrible as she is at it.

“UNDYNE, PLEASE! NOBODY NEEDS TO DIE!” And Papyrus is still trying to get her to stop, as useless as it is.

And Sans is still trying to tell him not to worry about it. Still trying to tell him to run, and that’s just as, if not more useless than anything being said aloud. It’s not gonna stop.

Even so, nothing chills him more than the moment it changes strategy. Doesn’t pick it up right away, since- heck, it all seems the same, at first. Shuffling through the snow, cutting down anything in its path. The bridge comes into view, and both Undyne and Papyrus are waiting, positions already memorized, much as Sans wishes he hadn’t noticed.

“Hey guys. ‘Sup?” It says casually.

Why?

“Don’t give me that bullshit, you punk!” Undyne snarls, and a spear slams into the ground at his feet. He doesn’t even flinch; it just shoves his hands into his pockets, casual as you please. “We’ve got reports coming in from survivors that something’s killing monsters in the woods- something that looks exactly like you.”

“BUT OF COURSE, WE KNOW THAT IS NOT TRUE!” Papyrus adds in helpfully. He’s wringing his hands together, all too anxious to ensure another spear isn’t thrown. “AND WHAT I MEAN BY THIS IS THAT YOU SHOULD EXPLAIN TO US WHAT’S HAPPENED! VERY QUICKLY, MIGHT I ADD.”

Why is it doing this?

“Snow problem; I got the goss if you want it.” A socket closes, but his gaze remains fixed on the captain of the royal guard. Her response to his words, stiffly dropping her offensive pose as she glares right back. “Wasn’t me at all, but people are definitely dyin’.”

“Oh yeah?” She’s sceptical. She’s sceptical to a tee, and that’s all he’s got to hold onto. It’s his last hope, because his SOUL can scream all it wants, but there’s only one thing listening. And it doesn’t seem to care. “Then what is, huh? What could be that horrible it-”

“It’s a human.”

And his hope dies the moment there’s a pause. Papyrus’ jaw drops; no matter the tense air about him, he looks excited enough to do a dance. Sans can practically hear the thoughts running through his cranium; about what he’d do, to be the one that caught it. Popular, prestigious-

“I knew it.” Undyne hisses, her singular eye narrowed into a slit, and it-

**Feels triumphant.**

 

 

It’s not really feelin’ that, right now. Sans has never seen the sea, but he’s read about it. It’s a vast, blue-green thing, constantly in motion. It’s got things like waves and currents, underwater volcanoes that are constantly active beneath the surface, pushing up jet hot water that could melt his own bones, if his magic could even handle the pressure of being that far down in the briny depths.

He’s got his own underwater volcano, inside his bones. It hisses and spits with a liquid **red** that’s disgusting to feel, and his entire body quakes at the pressure of keeping it in. Keeping it in. Keeping it in.

He’s never gonna fault that kid ever again. For every single vague memory he’s got where things went okay, for that one photo in his drawer, standing beside a kid with a smile like a star, he’s gonna be grateful. Because he’d never once considered that this? This was what they were up against.

And Sans never even took the time to figure out how old they were.

His hand shoots out, gripping the middle drawer and ripping it out of place, letting it fly into the wall opposite. Paperwork flies everywhere- a badge (just a key card, really) hitting the ground with a metallic clink as he retracts his arm, pushes it against his side so hard Sans is surprised he hasn’t cracked a rib yet.

“Not happening, bucko.”

**Yes, it is.**

He’s gotta be going insane, because Sans could swear it’s actually speaking to him.

 

 

It’s over the moment Undyne let’s it over the bridge. He knows it, and yet there’s a sense of dread that just keeps building, because he’s been around the block, by this point. He knows what’s coming, and it’s not really a matter of anything but when.

And they just let it approach them like nothing’s wrong.

“I need a report yesterday, bone boy. Descriptions, what it’s up to. Where it is. I’ve got the boys in Hotland on their way, but it’s gonna do us a hell of a lot of good if we know what we’re looking for...now that we know it isn’t you.” She’s all command, at this point. But the spears are gone, and Sans wishes she hadn’t done that. Wishes she hadn’t just taken it- him, right on his word, eye scanning the tree line ahead of her, rather than keeping track of _him._

It stands him next to Papyrus, the image of calm. But he can feel his own bones shifting, the way his phalanges have curled into fists within his pockets. It’s ready to strike the moment the opportunity presents itself.

“Dunno where it went, sorry pal. We’re lookin’ at something about yey high, kinda fluffy on the top. Blue and pink stripes, y’can’t miss it.” It waves a hand about level with his lower jaw. He’s never hated it more. It huffs, and his body makes it sound as far from humour as possible. “Got out of there after it cut down Dogamy. That or wait for my turn.”

“I BELIEVE YOU HAVE MADE THE RIGHT CHOICE.” There’s a quaver in Papyrus’ tone, but he talks through it. Naive, sometimes, but not a fool- his bro gets the implications of what he’s saying. He knows what’s already lost. “FOR EVEN ONE AS GREAT AS ME KNOWS THAT THERE IS POWER IN NUMBERS- ISN’T THAT RIGHT, UNDYNE?”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t beat yourself up about it.” Distractedly, she reaches over and pats Sans’ arm. It **boils beneath his bones.** “We’ve got it from here; you and Papyrus, you uh- you two are on evac. We need everyone out of Snowdin; doesn’t matter what they say. All of ‘em, out.”

Paps doesn’t even hesitate.

“YES. THIS IS A JOB THAT THE GREAT PAPYRUS CAN DO. AND SANS, OF COURSE.” Undyne carefully looks at him out of the corner of her eye, and Sans knows- she’s doing him a favour, here. Keep Papyrus out of the action, but keep him busy. Give him something important to do. She doesn’t know that it’s not enough- that it can’t be enough, and never will be enough, but it makes it’s mark. Hell if he’s looking forward to watching her die, either.

She could always be counted on to care for Paps, even if they weren’t exactly on the greatest terms, themselves.

“Good idea, bro. How about you go on ahead and get it started?” It jerks a thumb in Undyne’s direction, shrugging. “Me and capitan here go some more to talk about.”

“YES! THIS IS WHAT I WILL DO! AND OF COURSE, YOU SHALL BE MINUTES BEHIND ME.” The taller skeleton promptly salutes, deflating as he looks to Undyne with- genuine concern, perhaps. A little apprehension. “AND YOU WILL JOIN US TRIUMPHANT, WITH THE HUMAN IN TOW.”

She relents enough to give him a fanged grin, but it’s nothing friendly.

“Sounds about right. We’ll talk to Asgore about this later, yeah? See what he thinks about the newest member of the Royal Guard.”

Sans both loves and hates her, in that moment. Hates her, ‘cause they’ve talked about this. They’ve talked and talked, and he’s never found her in disagreement of his terms. She needed a sentry- she needed Sans, and he played that like a fiddle to keep Paps out of it all.

But he loves her, ‘cause those magic words are the last nice thing his brother gets to hear. And Sans can’t begrudge her that one, last tactic to give his brother some hope.

 

 

He really fucking hates this thing.

 

And he’s pretty sure it knows, simmering beneath the surface and waiting for every opportune moment to catch him off guard. Sitting here for hours until his eye sockets get heavy, waking up because it starts to move. Shoving him across the floor and closer to the doorway, until he sends them both down in a heap of immovable bone, dull eye lights counting the tiles in front of him up to the machine, and the doorway beyond. It boils, and he represses. Actually fighting for once, even though he’s never felt more exhausted than he does right now.

He shocked the hell out of it, and he ain’t letting that advantage go.

Isn’t sure he’ll ever get it back, if he does.

 **You won’t.** It tells him, with such a sense of finality that he’s loathe to admit he believes it. Loathe to all the more, because it can tell. It Sans believed it was capable of things like, yanno, normal emotions, he’d say it was smug.

It’s not, but it’s as close as his own comprehension on the matter gets.

“Feeling chatty now, huh?” Ain’t that something. It walks, it mimics voices, and it talks, all on it’s own.

 **You realize this is pointless, do you not?** It also ignores questions, which is fine, cause he’s just as inclined to ignore it right back. Though there’s an itch there, at the back of his skull. Like he just missed something. **You cannot win, Sans. I know it, you know it.**

**This is my Game, and you are not in control.**

“Your game- s’that what you think this is?” Heh. ‘Course it does. People die thousands of times over, and it’s just a game. Just something you do for kicks; like a kid in front of a keyboard. Press X to skip dialogue. “Sorry, bucko. It’s not.”

And you ain’t in control anymore, are you? Oh, but you want to be.

S’hard, when the story depends on the whims of someone else. Take it from him; he knows.

 

 

Papyrus lingers a little longer; hovering at Sans’ side like he’s got something to say, and no idea how to say it. Or it could just be Undyne’s presence putting him off, the two exchanging glances before the taller skeleton lets out a sigh- as in, SIGH.

He’s such a cool guy.

“I WILL SEE YOU SOON, BROTHER. VERY SOON.”

It smiles. And Sans hopes they don’t. He hopes that his brother takes off, and never comes back.

Except he knows this isn’t how this works.

The thump of his boots against the snow fades out eventually. It stares down at the tracks he’s left, sunken marks in clean white, and not for the first time, he wishes it had thoughts. Be nice to know what it thinks of this- and everything else that’s happened so far. Be nice if he felt even remotely close to it’s level.

“So. A human, huh? After all this time.”

“Seems like it.” It agrees amiably. His hands are still shoved into his pockets, still clenched into fists. It **boils** under her gaze, and Sans struggles to comprehend what that might mean. What Undyne’s got to her that most monsters don’t, past himself.

Maybe it’s more simple than he’s trying to make it out to be. Maybe, in it’s own way, it hates her.

"I don't buy it." She says bluntly.

Silence. Undyne stares it down. 

“Funny. You know, I’d be inclined to believe it… if the witnesses hadn’t explicitly said it was you.”

And it, in turn, lets his grin widen.

“I wasn’t gonna do this in front of Papyrus if I could help it, but I got one question for you, whatever you are.” A hum, spear of light appearing in one clenched fist, as she leans over it. The wind is howling.

He’d cheer if he could- ‘cept he wouldn’t, ‘cause she’s messed it up.

Don’t talk, just strike it down. Strike it down while the going’s good.

“Where’s Sans?”

“Who, me?” It replies, with his voice, and his face, and his smile. It shrugs, always casual, and Sans can see precisely why. Right there, behind her, just a glimmer of light.

The wind is howling. And it **boils.**

“I dunno what to patella, but I’m right here.” He doesn’t need to see her expression to know, when it finally changes it’s tune. When the smile becomes something else, and Sans likes to think that, right now, it doesn’t look anything like him at all. “ **And so is he.** ”

Undyne’s pretty fast, when she wants to be. Whipping up her spear summoning even more from the ground. Trying to.

She just never gets the chance. His fist collides with her chest, and when she crumples, it isn’t bound. There’s no rules, no turned based etiquette to stop it from bringing his fist down one more time. She never gets another chance to attack. It just stomps her out, grinding her dust under his slipper with a smile that’s too large for his face and silence, always just- silence. She messed up.

Shoulda just struck it down, while the going was good.

 

 

He almost liked it better when it wasn’t talking. Seems like, now it’s started, it’s just not gonna stop; casually reminding him of everything he’s done wrong, thus far. That he never really fought it anyway. That it didn’t even count when he did.

It stops boiling, after a while. Sans can’t help but take that as an indication that it’s calmed- now that it’s got a little bit of traction back. One more way to keep wearing him down.

Papyrus still hasn’t come back. He’s starting to consider that maybe, something is wrong.

 **He remembers too, you realize.** He’s starting to get real tired of this, but where’s the surprise?   **On a subconscious level, he will always know what you’ve done.**

“I didn’t do nothin’.” Sans grouses, shifting in place on the floor. His words are followed by a huff of laughter, though that part isn’t his doing. That’s all it, having a joke at his expense.

**Precisely. You didn’t do a thing.**

No, he didn’t.

**Amazing.**

**You were right; looks like you really are good at your job.**

“Can’t lie here, buddy. Coming from you? That ain’t exactly an insult.”

**Isn’t it?**

It is.

 **The drawer to the left.** It says, the sudden deviation from their usual scope of conversation startling, in it’s own right. His head lifts, pinpricks of light deviating almost involuntarily to the handle. Takes him a second to figure out if he’d done that, or it did. **Open it.**

“And why would I wanna do that?”

**Because I told you to.**

The laughter is entirely his own.

“Two words for you; get bent.”

 

And it **boils.**

 

 

By the time it reaches Snowdin, the whole town is empty. It’s familiar enough; same thing happened the last run, before he’d mucked the whole thing up; and yet it’s something else, seeing the plaza bare of even a single SOUL. Not even the kid is hanging around this time, and maybe that’s because Papyrus was the one doing the evacuating, this time. His brother never slacks on the job.

It deviates long enough to go into the store, helping itself to all the G in the till, and whatever else can be shoved in his pockets. He’s disgusted, but more concerning is the note.

_Please don’t hurt my family._

Sorry, lady. But he’s more worried about his own.

There’s another one of those golden lights, set by the box between the store and the inn. It takes pause there for a moment, and if Sans concentrates, he thinks that maybe he can feel it. The instance where time itself converges into that singular point, taking root and changing it’s linear focal. He thinks, almost wryly, of every video game he’s ever seen- which ain’t many, but they all had their own sort of Save feature. Multiple files in most places, letting Al deviate from whatever storyline she’d been previously fixated on in the otome game she was conquering, one perfect suitor at a time.

Save’s a good enough term for it as any. He could sit and theorize about it for days; and he has, sometimes. Calculation after calculation with the added frustration of differing event horizons and the implausibility of closed timelike curves being capable of occurring at all- like this? The science behind it is impossible. The magical theory behind it, impossible. But here they are anyway.

Yep, here they are. One step after another, down the road. It kicks a present out from under the tree, pauses to watch as it sails off into the tree line. Something inside breaks.

It continues on.

The further it goes, the more panicked he gets. The more his hands twitch, relentless, even as it shoves his hands into his pockets. Past the librarby, past the tunnels. Past a house with a pirate flag on the roof, past a garage that’s usually locked from the inside, no matter how many times Papyrus has asked him not to do that. It keeps walking as the world around them begins to fog up, as they get closer to the point where snow melts away to marshy swampland, magic throwing up steam to keep the encroaching cold from invading the nearby environment.

He wishes, and hopes, and blindly believes, that Papyrus won’t be waiting for him, at the end of the trail.

He never put much stock on having his wishes come true.

“BROTHER.” It brings him to a halt, when Paps is nothing more than an outline in the fog. Still and facing his direction, seemingly calm. Unarmed. “I REALIZE THAT SOMETHING TERRIBLE HAS HAPPENED. SOMETHING THAT HAS CHANGED YOU MORE THAN I HAD REALIZED BEFORE. HOWEVER, I STILL KNOW YOU.”

He does, doesn’t he?

“I DO NOT BELIEVE THAT YOU WOULD DO WHAT YOU HAVE DONE WITHOUT GOOD REASON. JUST AS- JUST AS I BELIEVE THAT YOU WOULD NOT HAVE HARMED UNDYNE IF SHE HAD NOT ALSO DONE YOU HARM.” Paps voice wobbles, even has he says it. So still, and unarmed, but he’s hurting. He just lost a friend.

And he thinks it’s Sans’ fault. He’s not really wrong, is he? It had shoved her down into the snow, over and over. Stamped her down until it could grind her beneath his heel, and Sans had done nothing.

It steps forward. He does nothing.

“YOU ARE A GOOD PERSON, SANS. YOU HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A GOOD PERSON. AND IF YOU HAVE LOST YOUR WAY, THEN THAT IS ALRIGHT. YOU SIMPLY NEED SOMEONE GREAT TO HELP YOU FIND IT AGAIN.” The crunch of the snow beneath his footsteps is almost louder than Paps’ voice, but maybe that’s just Sans. Maybe he’s listening to one more than the other. “YOU ARE APPROACHING NOW, BROTHER, AND I WOULD LIKE TO BELIEVE THIS IS BECAUSE YOU HAVE REALIZED I WILL HELP. WITH THIS, AND...AND EVERYTHING ELSE THAT IS HURTING YOU.”

Just go, Paps.

“I REALIZE THAT I HAVE BEEN HARD ON YOU, BUT I WISH YOU TO KNOW; IT IS SIMPLY BECAUSE I CARE ABOUT YOU. IT HAS BEEN HARD, TO WATCH YOU HIDE AWAY IN YOUR ROOM. TO KNOW THAT THERE ARE THINGS THAT YOU FEEL YOU CANNOT SPEAK OF, EVEN THOUGH I AM QUITE WILLING TO LISTEN.”

Run.

“AND PERHAPS I HAVE FAILED YOU, BECAUSE OF THIS. BECAUSE I DID NOT MAKE IT CLEAR THAT I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS… AM HERE, FOR YOU! BECAUSE I AM YOUR BROTHER, AND I LOVE YOU.” It’s brought them close enough now that Sans can see his face. And it’s kind; so open and understanding, and every inch of his SOUL feels raw. For all the things that haven’t been said- for everything that’s being said now, when it’s far too late.

“WHATEVER HAS HAPPENED, WE WILL WORK IT OUT TOGETHER! AS BROTHERS ARE SUPPOSED TO DO! SO NOW…” There’s a single moment where Papyrus doesn’t look so sure. A single moment where Sans thinks that maybe he’ll do the right thing, and turn around, and walk away. Maybe he’ll go, instead of letting things wind up the way they always have before. Maybe, just this once, his brother is gonna live.

Papyrus’ bones are rattling. He opens his arms.

“NOW, YOU WILL ACCEPT MY HUG OF ACCEPTANCE. AND EVERYTHING ELSE, IT WILL BE OKAY!”

It walks right up to him; just inches between it and his brother’s embrace. And it stares up at him with Sans’ face and Sans’ smile, and it **boils.**

“Sorry, Paps. Guess I shoulda’ told you this from the start.” The impact of his fist, bound in leather and thrust forward with LOVE, sends one of Paps’ ribs off into the fog. There’s a splash when it lands, sinking into the water as _his brother_ stares down at him in quiet disbelief.

“I never loved you.”

Papyrus gurgles.

Sans gurgles.

And he gurgles.

And he gurgles.

And he screams, as it pounds it’s fist into his brother’s battle body. As the fabric crumples, because it’s _just fabric, and it was never meant to do any good,_ and he hears more ribs snap.

 

 

 

And Sans **boils.**

  
  
  


For the first time, the sight of his bedroom ceiling may actually be the most beautiful thing he’s seen, throwing himself out of bed and scrambling down the hall on shaking bones that barely keep him upright. It’s sheer will that keeps him from tripping down the stairs, and sheer will that stops him from slamming straight into the front door. Snow flings into the air as he navigates haphazardly round the side of the house, and

After five minutes of trying to unlock the door, he winds up busting it in. Doesn’t have the motor skills for something as simple as shoving a key in a hole and twisting, or the patience to keep on trying. Always gave up on things pretty damn quick.

And here they are. If he stops concentrating on it for even a moment, he can still- hear it. Papyrus’ death keen, because that’s precisely what it had been. Another second, maybe two, and he would’ve seen the dust. Would’ve had to watch all over again as his brother was lost- not forever, but close enough.

People aren’t supposed to come back from stuff like that.

Sans has no idea how he did it, but he’s not going to chance figuring out if he can do it again. Twice now, he’s watched his brother die. And twice now, he’s had to live with that, the raw disbelief before the reality catches on, and his smile becomes nothing more than a permanent fixture of grief.

This is what happens when people like him slack on the job. And it expects him to open the drawer, because it told him to.

_It expects him to open the drawer, because it wants him to._

“If you think I’m gonna do anything you want me to do, you’ve got another thing coming. And you know what?” He should really put a mirror, in here. Because he’d love for it to be capable of seeing his face right now; love to know that it can see the way the lights in his eyes have snuffed out, jaw shifting into the closest thing he’s got to a sneer. Sans fucked up. Undyne fucked up. And Paps?

Paps fucked up.

Then it did.

“I’m pretty sure there ain’t all that much you can do about it right now, buddy. Is that what’s got you so chummy? Now that I’ve got my body back-

You can’t do shit, can you?”

It doesn’t answer.

 

But it **boils.**

 

And he knows he’s got it pegged.


	4. Ceasefire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The equations in this chapter are (very roughly) based off the exact solutions in general relativity, which goes along with chronology protection conjecture. It’s interesting stuff if you feel like having a google sometime.

 

* * *

 

  **It never ceases to amaze me: the things people care about.**

 

* * *

 

 

> **_E.1.17.15.A_ **
> 
>   _E.1.14.58.A- we made an error. huge error. initial results (A.1.1.1.A) lead into basis of current equations for formative analysis- basis of assessment for machine 1 (no longer functioning). machine 2.7 running off same schema with no consideration given to possible flaw. initial equation as follows._
> 
> _recent findings prove this incorrect. approximate finding E.1.14.1.A._
> 
>  
> 
> _there’s more than one._
> 
> **_ :) _ **
> 
> _yeah, real funny._
> 
> _whilst **A2**_ _shows small signs of control, it seems content with allowing it’s current host to lead the operation. I’m starting to wonder how long that’ll last._
> 
>  

* * *

 

 

>   ** _E.1.17.16.A_**
> 
> _guess that answers one question._
> 
>  
> 
> **_Anomaly 1_ **
> 
> _known qualitative findings_
> 
> _age: 8-13?_
> 
> _appearance: 4’5”. blue and pink sweater, blue shorts, black leggings. clothes initially in state of disrepair._
> 
> _malnourished- eager for food, constantly taking stock and approachable when offered. stunted emotional capacities. possible selective mutism- single word answers often sliding into the realm of ‘yes’ or ‘no’. **A1** exhibits signs of possible outside trauma._
> 
> _location unknown as of **E.1.14.58.A.**_
> 
>  
> 
> **_A2_ **
> 
> _age: does it even have one?_
> 
> _appearance: dependant on host._
> 
> _unknown point of origin. unknown LV. capable of host control; **A2** exhibits large amounts of DT in order to subdue and instigate actions. highly adaptable._
> 
> _as of **E.1.17.16.A** known kill count at a total of 234, give or take. most likely give. has become slightly more subdued as of **E.1.17.15.A.** shows inability to fully control host whilst host is conscious. on the eve of **E.1.17.15.A, A2** returned to Snowdin forest, attributing to a further 12 total death count prior to host attaining _
> 
> **_ _ **
> 
> **_A2_ ** _continues to request access to photo in drawer. request has been denied._
> 
> **_ For now. _ **

 

* * *

 

> **_E.1.17.24.A_ **
> 
> **_A2_ ** _has continued access to Snowdin and waterfall in evenings. continues to request access to photo. why?_
> 
> _hell if I know._
> 
> _work to be done on machine 2.7. course, its not gonna much difference, since as soon as a significant amount of work is done, it’s nullified. additional care must be taken in regards to **A2** ‘s level of access to machine 2.7 and consequential analysis. no further action on 2.7 to be taken until that’s all figured out. _
> 
> _further assessment into host and parasite:_
> 
> _as with control of motor functions, **A2** seemingly relies upon DT to separate consciousness. without appropriate analysis and testing, current hypotheses relating to a technique much akin to the barrier- a distinct level of separation between consciousness of host and parasite. the main similarity between the two being that they’re both one way- host has no control over current transfer of information._
> 
> _it is highly likely that this is something learned from prior host, **A1**_ **_. _ ** _it is highly likely that prior host had similar concerns of control._
> 
>  
> 
> **_A1_** _has yet to show up._

 

* * *

 

> **_E.1.17.26.A_ **
> 
> _is showing signs of slowing down. estimated time between **E.1.17.24.A** and **E.1.17.25.A** 52 hours. estimated time between **E.1.17.25.A** and **E.1.17.26.A** 88 hours. Known kill count 263._
> 
> **_A2_ ** _shows signs of restlessness. requests to view photo increasing. lesser activity shown when in vicinity of P._
> 
> _it’s possible that **A2** is avoiding P due to shift of balance in host/parasite amensalism. if so, this would contribute to prior hypotheses regarding **A2** ‘s level of intellect._
> 
> **_A1_** _still yet to show._
> 
>  
> 
> _where are you kid?_

 

* * *

 

 

As it turns out, conducting scientific research requires a lot more doing things than Sans remembers.

The major problem being his current cargo. Running the back of his pen across his teeth, he listens to the rhythmic clicking of plastic against bone, before running it in the opposite direction. Doing something, sure- just nothing valuable.

What’s he supposed to do, when every little thing he does is being monitored.

** Stop playing with your pen, perhaps. I imagine that would be a wonderful start. **

A pause. In a deliberately slow motion, he drags the pen over his teeth again, with a decisive _click, click, click._

He likes to think the ensuing silence is due to at least a little irritation, on it’s part.

Time hasn’t worked in a linear manner for a while. At the least, Sans isn’t expecting that, but the length of hours they’re coming up on- it’s almost 89 hours now. 89 hours, and doesn’t that seem like a good chunk of forever- has him wondering a few things. A few more things to add to the ever-growing pile, shit he’ll never make sense of with the way things are now.

His body is his own, for the most part. His mind? Nah. Not even close. So there’s really nothing he can do, unless he wants A2 listening in on everything, shutting it all down whenever it feels the need. Whenever he gets remotely close to threatening it. If-

**If you could even begin to threaten me in the first place.**

Yeah. That if. He exhales roughly, keenly aware of the way his body moves under the voluntary motion; the things you can’t take for granted after being possessed by a malevolent being, huh? Tossing the pen onto the desk, he gives the blueprints one long, almost longing look, before switching off the lights, locking up.

As he closes the door to his workshop, his eyes stray to the draws of his workbench. Not a voluntary motion.

“Makin’ me look at something ain’t gonna make me open it, bucko.” He feels it shift, in some manner, stuffing his hands into his hoodie and shuffling along. Coming out from behind his station in the forest, rather than dealing with going round the house.

Things haven’t exactly been the same, lately.

**You should adjust your notes accordingly.** It tells him. **S1 continues to avoid P. A backbone has yet to be located. Potentially irrecoverable.**

Part of that could be how chatty it’s starting to get.

Not that it’s got much important to say. Every second word an insult, every third a threat. Couple of hundred hours ago, it’d been- unsettling. Little over unsettling. Now, it’s just irritating. Like having a narrator to his life, cept the narrator sucks and has it out for him.

“What? Not gonna comment on that one?”

**You seem to be perfectly content following your own, useless tangent.**

“Mighty kind of you.”

And he hates it.

**I know.**

 

And he hates that, too. Slouching back into his station, Sans lets himself slouch down against the bench, elbows digging into the woods as he throws a friendly wave in the direction of the camera hidden in a nearby tree trunk. Can’t say he’s slacking at his job, even if he’s probably late. Or early. Never on time, either way.

The last 89 hours have been just like this, and it shouldn’t be. It shouldn’t be this normal, when he highly doubts it’s gotten bored with killing sprees every time he succumbs to a nap.

‘Cept it is, and he’s had too much practice at pretending to not follow the flow. Spend hours in the workshop, doing nothing. Hit up one of his stations for show. Go to Grillby’s. It’s all normal. He should be thankful for that, Sans gathers.

He’s not.

Snow never actually falls in Snowdin. Now and again, a drop of water will fall from the ceiling, turning a tiny patch of slush to ice. Thousands of years of footsteps had worn it all down, ground the icy water into the powder that made up most of the area today. There wasn’t an inch of this place that hadn’t been explored; and re-explored. And re-explored.

When he’d first settled down in this neck of the woods, monsters had frequented the place a bit more- frequently. But a cage is a cage, and most were content to stew in that eternal anticipation, waiting for the final human to fall. The seventh SOUL. What a way to live.

Still, it had suited him for a while. For a while, when it was practically the quietest spot in the Underground. So long as Alphys could confirm she’d seen him wandering about the place on her cameras, his job was secure. Left him plenty of time for other activities; doodling out some theories, tinkering with parts. Snoozing. Reading a magazine or two.

Snoozing.

It’s pretty telling, that he misses those days. Fishing up a ketchup bottle, he rolls it across the counter, watching it disappear off the edge and making no attempt to stop it.

He gets that feel, buddy. Maybe later, Papyrus would come along, and pick them both up.

**Do you not ever get tired of your self-fulfilling hypocrisies?** A2 asks. It sounds irritated, but it’s done that before. Doesn’t mean much. **Surely you could do something else.**

“Oh yeah?” It can’t really talk out loud; he can. And as much as Sans is aware he probably doesn’t need to, it’s got a factor of reassurance to it he hasn’t been able to shake, just yet. Voluntary action versus the opposite. “Well unless you got something specific in mind, I guess we’re stuck here. Nix the killing; snot my scene.”

**That pun is invalid. You have no bodily functions that would allow for snot.**

“Hey, not true. I got you.”

**Hilarious.**

Probably shouldn’t be poking the metaphysical bear here.

Eh. Sans eye sockets close as he relaxes further, confident in the counter top’s ability to keep him upright. If it’s feeling chatty, might as well poke it for something interesting. “Did you do this to the kid, too? The whole talking to your heart’s content thing.”

**I spoke when it was necessary.**

Ya-huh. Which would be-

**Most of the time.**

Figured as much. The forest around him is quiet- same way it has been for the past 88-- 89 hours. He can practically hear the river trickling away in the distance, which is saying something. No snow to fall, ‘cause there’s never been. No distractions from the problem at hand.

Alright then.

“You’re gonna have to be a little more specific, there.” Most of the time means nothing to him. More important is what they spoke about. “What are we counting as ‘necessary’?”

**If you cannot guess on your own, your idiocy runs deeper than first assumed.**

He’s gonna have to tack another note onto his reports; A2 is a rude fucker, when it wants to be. Still, it pulls a rumble out of him; laughter that lacks any sort of humor.

“When you were telling them to kill, maybe?”

**That is an assumption.**

“Yeah? An assumption of what?”

**An assumption that I had to tell them to kill.**

And there’s the unsettling factor. Guess he can’t expect that to be gone; s’only been a couple of hundred hours.

Times that by infinity, and he might have a chance at adjusting to it.

 

* * *

 

 

> **_E.1.17.26.A -- entry 2._ **
> 
> **_A2_ ** _possesses full capability of conscious interactions; it’s a chatterbox. whilst it has very little of worth to say, **A2** is showing signs of being receptive to interactions initiated by it’s host. _
> 
>  
> 
> **_A2_ ** _is more prone to discussion when host is in periods of inactivity. speech patterns, whilst indicating a wide vocabulary, also lend to a sense of irritation at what it interprets as ‘stalling’ as well as derision towards host._
> 
>  
> 
> _indications that it is truly capable of said emotions is practically nil._

 

* * *

 

He can’t exactly blame it for being bored, he supposes.

Although being bored still falls under the jurisdiction of feeling something, and he’s not sure he’s willing to go that far, yet. What he has felt from it thus far is a series of pushes and jolts inside his bones… a **boiling** whenever he’s tripped it up, made himself a little more of a nuisance.

That doesn’t count for jack. It could be an instinctual thing; it likes to keep moving, so the prospect of standing around doesn’t do it so good. He’s watched it tramp across the Underground enough times for that to be valid- hypothetically watched the kid do the same. He’s been laying off the theories in that direction, because it means thinking about the kid, but all in all-

**You realize you are aware of their name now, correct?**

“Yeah, got that part pegged.” He shuffles a small pile of magazines in front of him, rapping it against the bench a few times until all the edges line up.

Rethinks that after a moment, and nudges the topmost one off the edge of the station with an idle phalanx. Little better; little more like him.

**And yet you still refuse to use it. Why is that?**

Like it doesn’t already know. He lets his eyes drift away, to bare trees and high snowbanks. Let’s it answer it’s own question- it has a habit of doing that. Likes to prove him wrong wherever it can.

**A name signifies something you don’t want Frisk to have. An identity.** It sounds almost as idle as he does. Like it’s discussing the weather, or some other inane thing that doesn’t particularly matter; he doubts it actually does, past making sure he’s got the reminder down pat. **And if they have an identity, your objectivity regarding them is compromised. Monsters always have had a habit of making it their business to care, don’t you think? Not quite as befitting for a scientist.**

...It’s got a point. That’s the darndest thing about A2; it’s always got a point. Always capable of digging a little harder than he wants it to, straying into areas of his subconscious that he’s not keen on examining. Two more magazines go over the edge of the station; he listens to them hitting the snow, and imagines what it’d be like, if that sound were satisfying.

“You pick that up along the way, pal, or you just been down here that long?”

**That is neither here nor there. I ask you again; show me the photograph.**

Here we go.

 

* * *

 

 

> **_E.1.17.26.A -- entry 3._ **
> 
> _it has been a total of 173 hours since last known event horizon. in layman’s terms, that’d be a week._
> 
> **_A2_ ** _has begun making threats of violence in order to force host into periods of activity. threats are often graphic, but **A2** shows reluctance in acting on th_
> 
>  
> 
> **_Do I?_ **

 

* * *

 

 

> **_E.1.17.27.A_ **
> 
> _current kill count 280._
> 
> _scratch that last entry._

 

* * *

 

The part about this that scares him most is the fact that he’s almost used to it now, waking up covered in dust, or in the midst of executing something- someone. Someone he knows, because it’s a small world down here, and he knows everyone.

Made it his business to know everyone. Sans can’t say he doesn’t regret that. Making his way downtown, walkin’ fast- walkin’ faster, cause hell if he can look a single person in the eye when he knows he’s been an (unwilling) accomplice to their murder, or the murder of their family.

Going into Grillby’s isn’t an option anymore. It’s hilarious, in its own way, that that’s the thing that gets him most. Having to take his regulated breaks elsewhere.

Nice cream just doesn’t cut it the way a bottle of ketchup would.

The thing in his body doesn’t respond. No cutting remarks, nothin’. Been like that since the last time he slapped his body against the event horizon and brought it all back to zero. Only got one thing to say, one thing it wants, and he’s hard pressed to figure out a few aspects of that want. The logic behind demanding something over and over, instead of just taking it.

52 hours, since the last event horizon. It’s spoken to him six times since then, and every time, it’s the same words.

**Show me the photograph.**

Maybe he hasn’t really been putting the attention on that he should’ve been. Not really doing what he does best.

“Got a proposition for ya,” He rumbles out, key slotting into the lock and giving them both access to the workshop. Not a tile out of place; not that there ever is. Can’t be. “You gonna hear me out, or are we still playing at giving off some silent treatment?”

A pause. He stands in the doorway for an intermittent amount of time, chuckling to himself when no answers forthcoming. Figures. It wanted his attention, though. Wanted _somethin’_.

So he slouches his way over to the drawers, looking down at them and waiting, again, for it to make an effort to communicate. Considering it actually has something to lose, in all of this. Something to gain.

**I see. From denial, to anger, to bargaining. You already have depression covered; would the next step be acceptance?**

Real funny, bucko. Real cute.

“Y’know, maybe it’s just me, but I _photo_ if insulting the person offering you a deal is the best way to go, here.” More silence, and another chuckle. This one almost borders on amusement- vindictive as it is. “S’what I thought. So, buddy; we both know what you want. Question is, what’ve you got for me?”

He gets the distinct feeling that it’s laughing at him.

**That is simple. You want answers, do you not? That photograph has an answer.**

“Does it now?” It’ll have to forgive him, for being slightly sceptical.

**You do not believe me.**

“Nah, not really. You’re not uh, the trust inspiring type, y’know?” If this keeps on, he’s gonna have to start carrying a mirror. Just so he can wink at it. “You’re gonna have to meet me halfway here, buddy. I’m not all convinced.”

**The answers you assume you need do not matter, Sans.** His phalanges twitch, not of his own volition. He casually stuffs them into his pockets, waiting. If they don’t matter, then there’s nothing wrong with answering them, is there? **...Very well. Ask me your questions three.**

“Questions three? Buddy, is that all this photo’s worth to you? How about ten?”

**That is a ridiculous amount. You do know a thing or two about ridiculous numbers.**

“I ain’t asking for thirty here, pal. Ten, take it or leave it.”

It shifts under his bones, giving off that air of impatience he’s become all too familiar with, and he wonders again, why-

Well. He’ll save that for later.

**Five. Then you give me the photograph.**

“What happened to the other five?”

**I will answer them after I have the photograph.**

No, it won’t. Sans might not be the uh, tallest skeleton in the shed, but leverage only works when he has it. They got no reason to answer anything after they got that photo, ‘cept their word.

He carefully decides not to think of the alternatives, here.

“We got ourselves a deal.” So- five. Just the five. Sans lets his eye sockets close, mulling it over. “How about we start with a name; you got one?”

**Excuse me?**

“You heard me.” Since it’s so intent on reminding him that the kid has one, why not see if he can add to that collection? 

Why not throw it off, a bit?

**I do.**

“...You wanna elaborate on that? Maybe give me an actual, y’know, name?”

**No. And that is two questions you’ve wasted.**

Well, fuck him. Every time he finds himself laughing, Sans has to wonder what it’d be like, if this thing was a little- not it. Little more on the crafty and snooty side, little less malevolent something from beyond time and space. Maybe even a little less murdery.

He supposes some of that laughter might’ve been genuine, in a scenario like that.

“Alright. Third question- you got a species, pal? Monster? Human?”

**I do not know, currently.** It advises promptly; promptly, meaning he’s messed up the question somewhere. Left ‘em an out, like plugging it into a lie detector and leaving too much space for a vague, but honest answer. If it even cares about being honest. **Perhaps it is as you’ve noted prior.**

Perhaps it’s dependent on the host.

“You’re real keen on wasting my time here.”

**You are intent on wasting mine. Two questions.**

This was a waste of time, huh? A huff, and Sans slouches down; sits himself on the floor with his back against the wall and stares at the drawer; the one he’s agreed to open. The one it’s so hellbent on getting into.

“...You sure are interested in that picture, huh? An’ no, that don’t count as a question.” Just a train of thought, before it starts jumping the gun. “Really makes a guy wonder, you know. If you actually know what you’re doing. If anything you do is s’posed to, I dunno. Have a point.”

**You think they don’t.**

“Starting to believe it, pal. Starting to think this is all just doing for the sake of doing something. Killing people. Murderin’ my brother.”  Sans has to wonder what it’d be like, if this thing was a little- not it. Little more on the crafty and snooty side, little less malevolent something from beyond time and space. Maybe even a little less murdery. It’d make his job a hellova lot easier, for one.

Be a lot less concerning to find some sense of reluctant admiration, for second. If it deserves anything, at this point, it’s hate. But hate takes effort, and he likes his jokes. This whole thing they’re doing here; acting like it’s actually going to give him a proper answer. That’s a great joke, too.

**I do not understand why this is so difficult for you to comprehend.**

Why wouldn’t it be.

**If you have finished with your attempts at interrogation, give me the photograph.**

“Nah, I still got a question.” Sans answers flatly. It’s impatient again; good for it. He hasn’t spoken to his brother in over 300 hours; hasn’t spoken to anyone else in 52. Almost three hundred deaths in his body; and he’s got five questions.

If he wants to take his time, here, he’s pretty sure he’s got a right to that.

It laughs at him.

“What’s the big deal with the photo? It ain’t you in it.”

**No, it isn’t. But there is someone else I would like you to see.**

There’s someone else in it-

He really does need to invest in that mirror. When his face is set in a permanent smile, it’s always good to let the source of his ire see it turn into a grimace.

“And why’s that?”

His body shifts. It ain’t voluntary; local parasite making itself comfortable as it stands, rolling his shoulders. Question five. He s’poses it at least stuck to the number, though he’s still waiting for an answer as it heads over to the draw, stops.

Realizes it’s waiting, too.

**Open the drawer.**

And here’s the thing. At any point, it coulda just opened the drawer on it’s own. Coulda just taken the photo without telling him; pocketed it, or secreted it away somewhere he’d never find it. So if the point of all this isn’t to get it’s dirty, metaphorical paws on a piece of history that’s technically never happened, then hell.

Maybe it really does mean it. Maybe it really wants him to take a look.

There’s a few other things stashed in there, too. Old notes, a folder of stuff that he disregards, pushing a few pictures- old history, dead history. History that don’t exist, past or future- to get to what he’s looking for. Just a group photo; bunch of monsters on the surface. He recognizes most of ‘em; Paps to the right, Alphys to the left. Undyne behind her. The king. A woman he can only guess is the queen, though how she even came to be there is anyone’s guess.

Himself. And the kid.

 

They all look so damn happy. Now, more than ever, that seems so- impossible. Like there’s still the potential for anyone to be happy anymore, standing around in the sun. Taking a photo.

**Because, Sans.**

It moves a phalanx; taps it against the human in the photo. Just a kid, missing in action. Their name is Frisk.

Can’t seem to stop thinking about their name.

**You often need a visual before you’re willing to act.**

**And now, you are going to assist me in answering the correct question.**

 

 

**Whether or not your actions killed them for good.**

 


End file.
